Bad Day in Blackrock

Friday afternoon, 1:20PM or so, and I’m in the office laughing it up with my co-workers. I’m in the process of shutting down my laptop and packing a couple of parts to continue a couple of calls from earlier in the day and looking forward to the weekend. I receive a phone call and by the phone display I see it’s my brother, Terry. The only thing I think is that’s odd, because he doesn’t often call. I don’t think it is bad news because bad news comes in the middle of the night and not on fantastic fall afternoons.

I answer, he says “hey, it’s Terry” and he pauses and in an instant I realize it is bad news. I say “what’s happening?” He still doesn’t speak and I say “tell me,” Terry sobs “Mother is dead.” Bad news indeed.

Apparently no one has heard from or spoken to our mother in a few days and someone she worked for part time tried to contact her and when she couldn’t get in touch with my Mother she drove to her house, found Mother’s car in the driveway and banged on the door and windows. Getting no reaction she called Terry, since he works and lives close to Mother. Terry drives to Mother’s and he and the co-worker call the police.

The police kick the door in, actually the cop breaks the window on the front door and throws open the dead-bolt. The cop finds Mother dead on the bathroom floor.

The “Machine” takes over at this point. The cop calls the detectives, who show up and determine nothing untoward happened and they call the coroner. The coroner declares Mother deceased and states she has been dead for a week or longer. The coroner, the detectives, and the cop tell my brother he doesn’t want to go in the house because of the smell and the condition of the body. The coroner calls someone to remove the body and the people that remove my Mother do so in hazmat suits because she has been decomposing for a few days.

After my brother called, I called my sister –Carolyn- and my Dad, who lives in Virginia Beach, and I call my wife –Sharon- and drive home. All of us are devastated. My wife comes home and at her suggestion, we drive to my brother’s place on the south side of Atlanta in typical Friday afternoon rush-hour traffic. I remember very little about the drive, or for that matter leaving work, or the drive home from work. I’m in a fog of despair, I have tunnel vision, I can’t think, my actions are mechanical; everything I do is by rote.

My brother has my mother’s purse and I search her wallet and find a card for the Emory Hospital body donor program. My Mother’s wish was to donate her body to science. A very nice young lady answers the phone and I explain the situation, “we don’t want the body” she states. A refrigerated body twelve hours old is Emory’s limit. Nothing but the pristine dead for Emory.

Meanwhile my sister and a family friend Jane, who is like a member of the family, arrive at my brother’s. Terry, Lisa (my brother’s wife), Sharon, Carolyn, Jane and I commiserate for a while. Terry explains again the sequence of events.

My brother calls crematories for information; my Mother’s second wish was to be cremated. The corner told Terry the body would be taken to the hospital and because of the condition the body would need to be removed very soon. With-in the next day, two at the most. Carolyn, Terry and I decide on a crematory. Terry calls one of the places back, they will pick up the body in the morning and we agree to meet at 10AM the next day to sign the paperwork and discuss the process.

All of these steps are necessary, but seem cold and business-like. It’s as though there are two of me at the table. One of me is dealing with the matter at hand and the other wants to curl up in a ball and sob.

Eventually we get to a subject that must be discussed, however, one I –all of us dread. When was the last time we spoke to our mother? I called her on 9\25, but didn’t get an answer and wasn’t surprised she didn’t return the call promptly. At this point we don’t know with any certainty when any one had spoken to her last. Terry spoke to her last on 9\17; the day before her birthday. Carolyn hasn’t spoke to her in some time, years actually, but it isn’t her fault. The blame is completely Mother’s. As it turns out my last call to her was the last call on her phone.

The three of us had odd relationships with our Mother the last few years. Off and on adversarial relationships between us as individuals and her and for someone that didn’t know my Mother it would be hard to understand and hard to explain.

The last few years she changed from a laughing, practical jokester and caring person to an angry, short-tempered, almost spiteful person. Maybe it was age, maybe something happened, maybe it was a cumulative effect from everything that happened to her over the years, or maybe it was losing a child. My younger brother- Jerry- passed away eight years ago this Thanksgiving. Losing a sibling was tough; I cannot possibly imagine losing a child.

My Mother was tough. Not cage-match tough (although I wouldn’t have bet against her in her weight class), but raise-four-kids-on-your-own tough. The toughest person I have ever known. She got that way because of a will to survive. When she was a child somewhere deep in the lizard part of her brain, due to her family life and the conditions she grew up in, her survival instinct was triggered and it never waned.

We didn’t grow up with much and my mother had even less growing up, but she gave us what she could, when she could. She also gave us some things no one can ever take away: she gave us the ability to appreciate what we have and she gave us morals, honesty, the desire to do better and the desire to be better. Things she herself had in abundance. Things my brother, sister, and I have passed on to our own children. It’s our legacy and it’s a damn good one.

I’m not going to remember the angry Mother.

I’m going to remember and dearly miss the fun-loving, full of life, practical joker, the laugh out-loud Mother, the Mother with the mischievous grin, the Mother that could play and take a joke with the best of them; the hard-working, deeply-caring Mother. The Mother with the pretty smile. That’s the Mother I’m going to miss. That’s the Mother I’m going to remember. It’s my legacy to do so and it’s a damn good one.